


the more unlikely people

by bacondestiny



Category: Strange the Dreamer Series - Laini Taylor
Genre: Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Forced Relationship, I promise, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Slavery, Protective Siblings, Violence, all the usual delightful stuff the gods got up to, i think Eril-Fane/Isagol is a warning in itself, not between sarai and lazlo, that then becomes a real relationship, this is going to be fluffier than im making it sound
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-02
Updated: 2019-03-17
Packaged: 2019-10-03 02:59:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17275838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bacondestiny/pseuds/bacondestiny
Summary: "Don't worry, child," said Skathis, fixing her with his cold eyes. "I'm taking him foryou."***Two hundred and twenty years into the Mesarthim occupation of Amezrou, Lazlo Strange is offered to the goddess of nightmares like a bone tossed at a dog. The goddess herself, however, is even warier than he, and Lazlo hesitantly accepts the alliance she offers . . . which could have greater repercussions than either dared hope for.Sarai, born in the citadel and raised by her human father, only wants to protect her family. When a consort is forced into her life, she is can no longer pretend that she is anything more than her mother's pet. But with her sister, Minya, fast coming into a power unlikely to be extraordinary enough to earn her a permanent place in the citadel, and the shadow of what Lazlo was brought for falling even faster, Sarai must decide exactly how much she's willing to risk.





	1. Prologue

On the first sunset of Thirdmoon, in the city of Amezrou, a man was brought up to the sky.

His skin was brown, his eyes were gray. 

He was shoved off the monster Rasalas and failed to catch himself in time. He sprawled on the mesarthium floor, his face catching the brunt of the fall. The god of beasts picked him off the ground by the back of his shirt and marched him towards the throne room. He stumbled briefly, bare feet skidding on the impervious floor, and blood flowed from his nose. 

Later, the people of Weep would tell of a deliverer carved roughly from wood, instead of impeccably from mesarthium. 

They would say he had broken that nose brawling with Skathis before he even made it to the citadel. That he hadn’t attempted to wipe the blood away, that the gods might know what it had taken to bring him here. They would say he had looked the goddess of nightmares in the eyes and smiled with his teeth stained red.

That was true. Only that. 

It wasn’t how they pictured it, though. The smile was no defiant, roguish grin, no bloody snarl. It was a quicksilver reassurance, gone before it could really begin. The throne room of the Mesarthim was not a place for humans to smile. 

The goddess of nightmares was one to smile at, though. She wore a gown of waterfalling night skies, a crown of golden starbursts in her flowing red hair. She was young and lovely and surprised and silent.

She was also blue.

Blue as opals, pale blue. Blue as cornflowers, or dragonfly wings, or a spring--not summer--sky. 

Someone was laughing. It drew others--four others--while the rest of the gathering looked on the goddess and the man with grim realization. They were silent because the goddess was silent, paling to the blue of starlight and beginning to tremble. 

The stolen man was not prone to rage or bitterness, and the goddess of nightmares hadn’t been such for a long time, not to humans. Not to him. He saw her shaking and offered a tight, closed-lip smile. She bit her damson lip and stepped back towards her father, who was neither god nor hero to anyone but her. 

The laughter went on and on, roaring and nasty, but was nearly swallowed by the stillness of the rest of the room. 

As the stolen man looked with awe and hatred at the splendor of his new prison, the goddess of nightmares slowly raised her pretty, heavy-crowned head, and thanked her lord for the tribute.


	2. When Ill Luck Begins

Isagol was tangled in the sheets of Skathis’s bed, frowning. She’d needed roughness, and Skathis could provide that better than anyone she’d ever had. He’d delivered brilliantly, but now was rubbing soft circles into her shoulder with his thumb, his arm hooked around her shoulders. She didn’t quite know why, but didn’t care either way. 

There was an art to manipulating emotions. Isagol, being what most would consider a psychopath, had had to study very intensely to guess what people were feeling. She could change it to whatever she liked easily, but it was more fun to start with the original emotion and tangle a person up in themself. Watch them struggle, seize, go mad.

That was one reason she liked Eril-Fane. She’d had him for twenty years and he still wasn’t lost. She wasn’t sure how he did it. Probably something to do with their daughters. How he fawned over those children. 

_“What_ am I going to do about Sarai?” Isagol sighed despairingly. 

Skathis chuckled. “What makes you think I would know?”

She swatted at his chest. “The fact that you’ve kept seven children? You must have some idea of what to do with them by now.”

“Well. For you, I’ll do my best. What’s wrong with her?” he asked.

Pleased, Isagol said, “She’s just pouty all the time. I don’t know what has her so moody.”

“It’s possible she’s bored,” he suggested. With a sudden movement, he rolled over her and pinned her hands above her head. “Apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

Huffing a laugh and flexing her wrists, she said, “Sure. And what shall I do about it, _Daddy?”_

“Well, how do I get you excited?” A paper-thin layer of mesarthium peeled away from the wall and formed into cuffs, locking around her wrists, around her ankles. 

“Oh,” Isagol said. “Oh, I like that idea.” She laughed. “She’s always wanted to be a human girl. Show her how human girls spend their eighteenth birthday.”

***

Sarai wasn’t hiding. She wouldn’t mind being found by, well, _most_ anybody. There were a few she was trying to avoid for a little while: the servers, her maids. Her mother. 

Her eighteenth birthday was just an excuse to throw a party, a chance to flaunt their power to the people down below. The servants, enchanted by Isagol, had brought from the city mountains of food, much of which had already been eaten. Sweet frosted pastries and the freshest fruit had been served with breakfast, and a formal lunch had featured everything from charbroiled hogs to sauteed svytagors. Dinner would be dozens of small dishes, free for the taking of the gods and their chosen children and lovers. 

Sarai would be gifted exquisite things, wonders made in the city that, even after eighteen years, would still shock her with their loveliness. Her mother would give her something made of teeth--literally or otherwise--and her father would give her something she would cherish. Minya would give her something inane but thoughtful. Her friends would give her the pretty city things. The gifts the rest of the gods gave were wildly unpredictable, so Sarai didn’t bother wondering. She’d get what she’d get and no matter what, she wouldn’t dare complain.

This would be Sarai’s last birthday party. The last one with such a spectacle, at least--Papa would continue to give her gifts, and most likely so would Sparrow and the rest. She was happy about it. She didn’t want to give the gods an excuse to celebrate anymore.

Sarai peered out from the bush of gigantic ascendas. She was high enough up that she could see over the wall, and down to the city that was not called Weep. It was sometimes called the City of Seraphim, after the great beings who had delivered the world from monsters. Sarai mostly heard it called the City of the Gods, now. 

Sarai had been down there. Physically down there, her heeled feet on the streets, and not even long ago. She could go down when she liked, but didn’t often. She visited the city most nights, and when she did it silently on a hundred pairs of tiny wings, she didn’t have to deal with the look in people’s eyes. The hatred burning in their black eyes, and worse. The fear that kept their eyes glued to the ground and their hands on their children. 

_I’m not like them,_ she wanted to cry. Of course, she never had, and never, ever would. 

Sarai was so lost in her own mind that she didn’t notice Sparrow until the girl touched an orchid bud to her nose. 

“Boop.” She smiled sweetly when Sarai jumped. “You were a little lost in your own head, there,” she said gently. 

“Oh. Yeah. Hi.”

Sparrow was probably Sarai’s best friend. She was the sweetest, nicest girl in the world; sunshine and birdsong given human form. She was a daughter of Letha, chosen for the unique duality of her gift. Such a high magnitude for the gift of growing and healing was appreciated, but what earned her a spot among the handpicked Chosen was her ability to _rot._ She could leech the life out of plants, out of people. Combined with the fact that she kept the garden in better shape than any team of gardeners ever could have, Letha had decided to keep her on. 

Sparrow had one sibling, Bear, who was eighty years older than her. He could implant false memories into people’s heads, which Letha had found amusingly ironic. With the age gap, they weren’t close--Sparrow had always been closest to Ikirok’s youngest muse, Ruby. 

They were a few months apart in birth, and rarely apart in anything else. When Sarai peered outside of the bush, sure enough, Ruby was gathering torch ginger blossoms at the next flower bed over.

Ikirok was the god of revelry, and creativity was a rather important part of that. The children he kept had gifts that added to his revelry. His girls were dancers, singers, could make deadly confetti or intricate illusions. Ruby, to the considerable distress of her nursemaids, shot fireworks.

“You ready for tonight?” Sparrow asked. 

Sarai groaned. “As I’ll ever be. I’m glad this is the last one.”

Sparrow hummed, and crawled into the dirt beside her. “I hope you’ll like your present.”

“She will,” Ruby said confidently, sashaying towards them with her skirt full of flowers, uncaring that this meant her legs were bare to her hips. “I helped you pick it out. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves! We haven’t done the birthday-braid-train yet.” She dumped the flowers in a heap by their feet and hopped up. “Sar, you get Sparrow. Happy birthday.”

“That doesn’t work when it takes both of us to do yours afterward,” Sparrow pointed out as she scooted behind Sarai, Ruby crawling behind her.

“It’s not my fault it takes both of you to manage all this hair.”

“Well, maybe if you would _brush it . . .”_

The birthday-braid-train was a tradition for the three of them, starting back when Sarai was seven, her first birthday after being Chosen. Sparrow had offered to teach her how to make flower crowns as a gift, Sarai had selected ginger torch buds because they looked like candle flames, and Ruby had caused some very minor explosions. It had been a very good day.

Light conversation carried as they worked; Ruby weaving Sparrow’s hair, Sparrow weaving Sarai’s, and Sarai working on a crown for Ruby’s magnificent mane. Conversation lulled after a while, and the only sound was Sparrow’s sweet humming when her father came in.

“There you are, anyanzi,” said Eril-Fane, peering under the cluster of flowers. “We couldn’t find you.”

“Papa,” Sarai said happily. “Did Minya go down for a nap?”

“Not even close. I chased her in circles for an hour and then she bounced on her bed while I read her stories.”

Sari sighed. “She’s going to be cranky at the party.”

He waved his hand. “I’ll put her down early. Hello, girls.”

“Hi, Eril-Fane,” they said in unison. Sarai felt Sparrow’s hands still in her hair, and heard her say, “Would you like me to make you a crown?”

“I would love one,” he said. “But I’m afraid there’s not a lot of time. Look down.”

Sarai peered around his shoulders, and realized the sun was below the balustrade. Night was falling; she could feel it in her throat, but her hundred smithereens of darkness would have to stay contained for tonight. There was a party to attend--and, firstly, to get ready for. “Already?” she asked, voice small. 

He sighed, and in that moment, he looked like a man who’d spent twenty years as a plaything for a goddess. Then he smiled, and though it was tired, his eyes crinkled warmly. “Showtime, anyanzi.”

***

Seven thousand feet below, with the setting sun on his face, Lazlo Strange rushed to supper. He’d stayed late in the secret basement beneath the shop, dusting his secret library, and ended up, as he often did, reading on the floor. The streets were very nearly empty--no one in Amezrou liked to be outside after dark, and certainly not tonight--so Lazlo felt safe to open and resume the book he was reading. _The Tale of the Mahalath,_ a faranji story he’d unearthed from the secret library just this morning, about a fog that came twice a century and transformed every living thing into a god or a monster.

 _What,_ Lazlo wondered with a stab of hatred, _is the difference?_

He had only reopened the paper shop three years ago. Both his family home and business had been abandoned when Lazlo became an orphan. He watched his father drown in ink for daring to record the history of the gods’ reign, held down by Ikirok as he flailed, floundered. Fell still. His mother had died bearing him into the world before she even had the chance to name him, and Lazlo had always wondered if she would have chosen something different. She might have lived if doctors were allowed in the city, but they were not. He’d lost both his parents to the Mesarthim.

The execution had been sudden; there had been no hint it was coming. Lazlo had been rushing home from hanging out with Tzara, and on the way, he’d seen the gods’ platform lower down to the amphitheater. When he walked, sickened, towards the mandatory show, he’d had no idea it was his father. When it was done, when everyone was shuffling out, dead-eyed, Lazlo had stayed, frozen, trembling, until a woman took his hand and led him away.

The woman was Suheyla, the matriarch of the neighborhood. She’d taken him to her home, fed him and clothed him, and at some point in the following months, Lazlo realized that he lived with her. 

He had moved out as an adult, but still spent most evenings with her, and often with her daughter-in-law, Azareen, the widow of Suheyla’s son who’d been taken up to the citadel and did not come down, and did not, and did not, and did not. Azareen wouldn’t be joining them tonight. Lazlo knew why. It was the same reason he wouldn’t make it the day after tomorrow, and it was a secret even deeper than his library. 

By the time he arrived at the yeldez he still thought of as home, Suheyla already had dinner on the table. 

“There you are, young man,” she clucked. “I was beginning to worry, and your soup was beginning to get cold.”

Lazlo had to bite his tongue to keep from apologizing--they had a rule about apologizing. “I didn’t mean to worry you,” he said instead. “I’m afraid I just lost track of time. I found a new book!”

“Oh? Well, wash your hands and you can tell me all about it.”

Lazlo was always bringing home books. Once upon a time, his family had been traders. They’d sold decorative paper, which sounded dull until you saw the paper they could create. His family had some faranji blood, in fact--not long before the gods, Samirah Strange had come back across the Elmuthaleth with an unintended, but very welcome, souvenir. Lazlo had his faranji forefather’s eyes, and an unyielding fascination about his world. 

He’d collected every book about faranji, every story they’d told, every scrap of mythos he could get his hands on. It wasn’t enough. Across the Elmuthaleth, those hundreds of miles of sand and sweat and threaves, the people were free. There was a free world out there, and Lazlo dreamed of it. He dreamed of crossing the Elmuthaleth and going to _learn_ in the free world, and he dreamed of coming back with whatever knowledge he gained, and bringing down the gods.

It was impossible, of course. The Mesarthim had magic, power beyond this world, and even Strange the Dreamer didn’t fool himself that they might be brought down with mere knowledge. No one believed they would ever be brought down at all. No one could let their head drift that far above the clouds; the citadel blocked them.

But Strange the Dreamer went on dreaming.

As he was sitting down to dinner, the far-away booms of the gods’ fireworks began. They talked louder to drown the noise--this day, even more than the anniversary of Eril-Fane’s abduction, was extremely difficult for Suheyla. 

The birthday of his daughter. 

Sarai, goddess of nightmares, could only be Eril-Fane’s child, and hence, Suheyla’s grandchild. The math lined up too perfectly for anything else, and there were other hints. She shape of her chin, of her eyes, the way of flicking her thumbnail against the pads of her fingers she’d had as a child. Her birthday celebrations were difficult.

Lazlo relayed the story of the mahalath to Suheyla as they began dinner. She was as interested as ever, asking questions and making sharp little comments. “Does the fog come from the entrance to the underworld?” she asked, adding another heap of rice to his plate.

He grinned. “Maybe. It doesn’t really say where it comes from, and I think the point is that the origin doesn’t matter. The result does. The boy, Oraat, stays behind because he wants to protect himself from his stepfather, and whatever the mahalath turns him into, he’ll be able to do it. That’s why I think he’ll end up a god. It’s a pure desire. The woman, Lara, though--”

“Lazlo.”

“--she wants to become a goddess and rule the village, and she’s certain she will become a god--”

_“Lazlo.”_

“--which is why my money is on her becoming--”

“Lazlo!” she hissed, shushing him. That wasn’t what made him quiet down, though--he was quite capable of chattering on about his stories.

What made him catch his breath, fall silent, and go very still, were the wingbeats. 

_Whump. Whump. Whump._

And then, most terribly, the _thoom_ that shook the bones of the city itself.

Rasalas had landed.

They went motionless. All life froze, citizens holding their breath and clutching their loved ones. Suheyla took Lazlo’s hand, though he was old enough to be out of danger. Azareen, in the Tizerkane training caves below, felt a phantom weight in her belly, and the ghost of her husband. Across the street, Bashira, seventeen years old, was shoved into a corner, her fiance shielding her as though it might make a difference. 

_Thoom, thoom. Thoom, thoom._

The steps grew louder, shaking dust from the ceiling. 

“What is he doing here?” Lazlo whispered. He came in full daylight, not the quiet of night. _Besides,_ Lazlo thought, hearing the explosions above, _he’s missing the party._

_Thoom, thoom. Thoom. Thoom._

“Hush,” Suheyla breathed.

_Thoom. Thoom._

Lazlo drew a raged, silent breath that forced his shoulders to their full width. He placed his hand over hers and waited for Rasalas to pass them by. Rasalas. Though the beast was not even truly alive, he dwelled on its thunderous footsteps sooner than the thing on its back. That was the true beast.

_Thoom._

The windows were open. He could see the mirror-like sheen, the sinuous flow of metal muscles as it began to stalk past their house. He could see the tops of its horns over the roof.

_Thoom._

And then . . . a knock.

It was Suheyla who understood first. She remembered a similar moment forty years ago--sitting with her family when a knock at the door came. Lazlo understood a moment later, just in time for another knock. From Rasalas this time, and it broke the hinges and sent the door flying inside in splinters. The giant metal paw drew itself out, leaving the doorway empty until the true monster strode into view and leaned against the buckled frame.

Skathis. His cruel, amused face, his crown of writhing ouroboroi. His boots of spectral flesh, his cape of knife-blade diamond dust. His blue flesh, his blue beasts. Power beyond measure, the greatest and most terrible of all the gods.

“Lazlo Strange,” said Skathis, extending one imperious hand. “Come with me.”

Lazlo went numb. His body was stuffed with cotton, weighed down by lead. His dry mouth fell open and nothing came out. _But I’m twenty-one,_ he thought distantly, underneath the rushing in his ears. _That’s not . . ._

“No,” Suheyla breathed. It was clear in the next instant that she had not meant to, but Skathis heard and fixed her with a look. 

“No?” he repeated, brows raised. “Do you object?” One of the serpents in his crown swallowed itself and filled out, detaching and slicing its way through the air to loop around her throat. Her eyes widened. The serpent skimmed against her jugular, sinching close, circling fast. “Come now. You know there is no safety and no salvation,” Skathis said, a distinctly amused tone in his voice. “There is only surrender.” 

“I do!” Lazlo gasped, standing. “I--I surrender, I’ll go with you! Please, leave her alone.”

The god’s gray eyes returned to him. “‘I do,’” he mused. “Fitting. That’s what you say at weddings, isn’t it?” He jerked his head towards Rasalas, and the serpent snapped through the the air, returning to his brow and swallowing its tail.

But Lazlo’s feet would not move. He hadn’t thought that far, just said what he prayed would save the life of his foster-mother. _That’s what you say at weddings._ He was--he was--it was a goddess’s eighteenth birthday, and Skathis was at his door, talking about weddings. Bile rose in his throat, but it was clear to see that Skathis’s patience--never enduring--was fast running out. There was no other option. No safety and no salvation, and even if he’d rather have died than mount the beast, it wasn’t just his life at stake.

He forced himself to take one step, then another. He staggered out the door, Skathis still slouched against it. The god pushed himself off and stalked to his beast. Rasalas growled at Lazlo, and he skittered back from its nightmare head. Its breath, he thought, didn’t stink. Its breath wasn’t even real. 

“Don’t worry yourself too much, boy,” Skathis said almost conversationally. He mounted, and extended a hand for Lazlo. The blanket of shock was beginning to settle around his shoulders, and numbly, Lazlo took it. He hadn’t ridden anything since the carnival spectrals when he was a child, and needed help getting up onto the massive thing. “I’m taking you for Sarai,” he continued. “She’s soft. We’re hoping you’ll toughen her up.”

They launched. Lazlo didn’t hold onto Skathis, was recognizing distantly that he didn’t want to have touched him at all, and slid back several inches before the beast’s haunches stopped him. They rose fast, wingbeats pushing air aside with concussive force. Within seconds, they were hundreds of feet in the air. The fall, if he hit the ground, would certainly be enough to kill him. The question was whether he’d be caught. _Yes, _Lazlo knew instantly. He would. And then he’d be punished.__

__No safety and no salvation._ _

__Sarai. Lazlo heard Skathis’s words as though through an echo. Sarai._ _

__He knew her. Knew _of_ her. Sarai was the latest goddess to be added to the pantheon. Goddess of nightmares. She was one among _twenty-six_ chosen out of the _hundreds of thousands_ of babies born; one of _eight_ that had been named a god; the _only_ child that Isagol the Terrible, goddess of despair, had ever troubled herself to keep. There had been others, over the centuries. Isagol was a very dark thing. She had not kept her daughter out of sentimentality. _ _

__Lazlo wondered what the Mesarthim qualified as “soft.”_ _

__Not so far above him, the stars were out. So very far below and beyond, Lazlo could see the Cusp shining in the moonlight. He could see the vast spread of the Elmuthaleth beyond, an endless sea of sand into which the sun sank every night. Beyond the thousand miles of dust and heat and threaves, there was the rest of the world. In front of them were the giant seraph’s folded wings, flame and feather and metal at once._ _

__Rasalas flew under the seraph’s dexter arm and around to its chest, to where its hearts would be. It didn’t slow down as they came closer, and Lazlo wondered, for a split second, if they were going to crash._ _

__No. A Rasalas-shaped hole melted in the wall, and they landed in a large, empty chamber._ _

__Lazlo was shoved off. He slid off frictionlessly and wasn’t expecting it, and sprawled on the floor. His face took the brunt of the fall, and he heard his nose _crunch._ He felt the shock of the impact, and then the wave of blood. _ _

__“Tch,” Skathis said. The god of beasts picked him off the ground by the back of his shirt, twisted his arm behind his back, and marched him into a hallway. He stumbled briefly, bare feet skidding on the impervious floor, and blood flowed from his nose. He didn’t try to wipe away the blood because it didn’t occur to him. Very little occurred to him. Lazlo was in shock._ _

___This can’t really be happening,_ he thought as he was led through the magnificent corridors. _I’m twenty-one. He’s never taken someone past twenty before. It doesn’t make sense._ Lazlo could say nothing good about the Mesarthim, but they were at least _consistent_ in their vileness. They did not take children and they did not take adults. Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen--those were the ages where you lived in fear. After your twentieth birthday, you were safe--from abduction, at least. There was always the threat of execution for entertainment, which was often random. The kidnapping was systematic, and Lazlo just didn’t fit._ _

__It didn’t matter though, did it? The Mesarthim could take whoever they wanted, whenever they wanted, however they wanted. What would stop them?_ _

__***_ _

_  
_It was a lovely party. They all were. Being Chosen had perks, and being Exalted had _perks._ There was music, dancing, divine food, singing, the air filled with white-hot, searing confetti, Ruby setting off increasingly beautiful fireworks. Dinner had been served, short speeches made, and Sarai had danced first with her father and then with each of the gods. _  
_

__Sarai had been dolled up to new heights of beauty. She was in a floor-length, sleeveless gown of deep purple, shot through with glimmers of white and accented with glaves and diamonds cut like stars. The fabric split into halves in the back and wrapped around her torso; the section that covered her right breast climbed up her left shoulder. The skirt pinched at her waist and flowed gently outward, modest except for the slit, which existed primarily to show off her shoes. Her heels and crown matched: moths carved from alternating silver and spectralys. Sparrow had done her hair, but there were no flowers or braids, only perfectly pressed curls arranged over her shoulders and back. Sarai’s lips were painted purple and her eyelids were powdered dark, with shimmering diamond dust swirling across, like bands of stars._ _

__The dancing was still going on, but the formal air was beginning to diffuse. Sarai had danced with all the Mesarthim and the Chosen that weren’t performing. People were still dancing properly--her mother had stolen Papa back, Hollow and his latest bewitched concubine, Korako and Vanth-- but most of the Chosen (and Ikirok) were gathered in the corner, beginning a line dance from the city._ _

__It had been a good night, so far. Soon enough there would be cake, and then there would be the perilous task of opening her presents._ _

__She glanced around. Most of the gods were busy dancing. Letha was sitting on a cushion, definitely drunk. And Skathis had patted her on the shoulder a few minutes ago and excused himself for a moment._ _

__So Sarai was free to take a breather._ _

__She slipped out to the garden, wandering through the gigantic islands of flowers. Thankfully, she had it to herself--Ruby had gone in during the dancing, and if anyone else was out here, they were far enough away that she didn’t hear them._ _

__Sarai sighed and leaned over the wall. She could see the city down below, nearly all the lights dark. Windfall was right beneath her. She was too high up to pick it out, but the house where Azareen lived was just down there. Her eyes tracing along the streets, she found where her grandmother’s home was. Tonight, she would be cooking to drown out her grief, and Lazlo Strange would join her . . ._ _

__Sarai shook those thoughts away. She was out here to calm down, breathe in the sweet night air. The natural perfumes were heavy and delightful out here, and the tides of the winds brought new ones every minute. Sarai closed her eyes._ _

__“Why aren’t you inside?” asked a small, bell-bright voice._ _

__Sarai turned. “Minya!” she said, smiling. “Did you sneak out?”_ _

__Minya nodded solemnly. “I want more cake.”_ _

__Grinning, Sarai scooped her up. The little girl vehemently refused to take naps, and was always surprised to find that this made her tired at night. She yawned and settled her head on Sarai’s shoulder._ _

__Minya was Sarai’s six-year-old, full-blooded sister. She was stubborn, manipulative, too clever by half; sometimes shy, sometimes shameless; sly, selfish, and just . . . adorable. She was sweet and kind and silly, creative and inquisitive and fearless, and despite what childhood was like in the citadel’s nursery, she possessed some of her rightful naivety. She was a ferocious little beast, but fiercely _loving_ more than anything else. She was kind of the light of Sarai’s life. _ _

__Isagol and Letha typically bore one child a decade. Minya had come along a little late, when Sarai was twelve, and she had been _ecstatic_ to have a little sister. She wasn’t allowed back in the nursery, but their father, same as with Sarai, had been granted as much access to his daughter as he liked. Sarai had spent the most of her waking hours over the past six years playing with her baby sister. She adored her, and Minya loved her right back with a fierce possessiveness that was startling in a child. Perhaps not, though, considering what happened to all her other playmates._ _

__Sarai clutched her sister tighter, and refused to dwell on that._ _

__“And still you came to find me first?” Sarai asked. “That was so sweet of you, little bit.”_ _

__“It’s _your_ party,” Minya said. “If I get a party, I’m not ever gonna leave it. They’re fun.”_ _

__“You’ll get one,” Sarai promised, breath hitching. “I know that you’ll be wonderful when you manifest. Just you wait.”_ _

__Minya’s face was hidden in her shoulder, and so Sarai didn’t see the way her eyes skidded to the side; the guilty, fearful look on her face. “Can we get cake now?” she asked, and Sarai laughed and agreed._ _

__Minya was small for her age, and about as heavy as a matchstick. She was overdue, and the . . . consequences of that were beginning to be set in place. Already, Sarai could feel the individual knobs of her spine, the shape of her shoulder blades._ _

__Sarai remembered being six years old and powerless. She wished she couldn’t._ _

__Back in the arcade, the cake was indeed being served. By captive humans, of course, but after eighteen years, Sarai was numb to it. Still carrying Minya, Sarai passed Korako, and the goddess obviously knew that the little girl had escaped, but she didn’t do anything about it. Minya had been escaping the nursery since she could toddle, and eventually, Skathis had ordered the staff to let her. If she was clever enough to do it, she deserved to enjoy the freedom. What did he care?_ _

__“Chocolate!” Minya exclaimed, squirming out of Sarai’s arms. “Gimme gimme,” she said, reaching for a plate from the human, who flinched back from her little hands. “Please,” she added as an afterthought, because their father had worked very hard to instill manners into her. “Thank you,” she chirped and dashed off to find a chair._ _

__Smiling, Sarai made to follow her, but a soft chiming rang out before she could. Sarai turned her head and saw her parents standing at the elevated platform where the table was. The food had been cleared away, and it was now piled high with gifts. Isagol had tapped her wine glass with a fork and now stood queenly and expectant at the head of the room. “Attention,” she said, and the room fell silent. Ikirok gave Ruby a final spin and set her loose, heading for the table. Letha staggered up and plopped on the table. Vanth, still holding Korako by the wrist, sauntered up as well._ _

__Isagol smiled beautifully. “Sarai, pet, come up here. It’s time to open your presents.”_ _

__Sarai smiled back as she walked up, and bowed before the Mesarthim. “I thank you, high gods, for these tributes,” she said, switching to the rough, cracking words of the Empire._ _

__“You are heard,” Isagol said carelessly. She drew her daughter in for a brief peck on the cheek. “Go on, now.”_ _

__Sarai did not make a habit of disobeying Isagol, but . . . “Mother, should I not wait for High Lord Skathis?”_ _

__“Don’t you fret, he’ll be along.” She waved her forward. “Get on with it.”_ _

__Sarai sat down in the throne. It was smaller than her permanent one in the throne room but otherwise identical: made of thousands of moths, but full of monsters in between. Ravids, threaves. Rasalas. Skathis thought it was funny._ _

__She took the first one--Ikirok’s. A new tiara, made entirely of diamond, that caught the light and nearly blinded with its sparkle. She thanked him sincerely. Vanth’s was a massive cage full of pink birds, which Sarai tried not to read into. Letha gave her a new dress made entirely of nails and leather, which . . . wasn’t unexpected. Korako gave her a bracelet of syvtagor flesh, emeralds and sapphires dangling from it. Isagol gave her a veil._ _

__“Mother, this is beautiful,” Sarai said, pleased. It was a much nicer, sweeter gift than her mother usually gave her. Purple, long, and shot with strands of glimmering white, it matched her dress perfectly. Like she was meant to wear it tonight._ _

__Skathis still wasn’t back._ _

__Sarai’s stomach turned to lead._ _

__“You should put it on,” said Isagol, smiling. She reached over and plucked Sarai’s crown off her head. Hands trembling, Sarai obeyed, settling the veil over her head like how human girls wore them in their dreams of weddings. Isagol put the crown back on and rested her chin in her hand. “Look at you,” she cooed. “You look like a bride.”_ _

__The whispers and giggling had grown quiet. When Sarai looked at the crowd, she saw that many of them were coming to the same dreadful conclusion she was. Cheer pinched her lips together. Desouk sighed and closed his eyes. Ruby was paling to a bloodless cerulean. Feral and Sparrow were looking at her in horror. Minya was frowning, confused, her little face smeared with frosting._ _

__She twisted to look at her father, and the look on his face was the worst, because it was recognition._ _

__The room was quiet. It was easy to hear the footsteps ringing up the hallway. Both pairs of them._ _

__Skathis appeared. He kept marching forward, and the small crowd parted. Minya ducked behind Sparrow, and Feral tucked Ruby into his chest. Most remembered to bow their heads, but some were too focused on the man he dragged with him._ _

___Oh, gods,_ Sarai thought as she stood, against her will. _No. No. Anything but this. No no no no no no no no no._ _ _

__She knew him. Of course she knew him. Sarai recognized almost every person in the city below, knew their dreams and their nightmares, their homes and their lives. She recognized Lazlo Strange. She _knew_ Lazlo Strange._ _

__But far, far more important was this-- _he_ knew _her.__ _

__***_ _

_  
_Lazlo was thrust forward and only managed to not fall on his face this time because there was a table. He caught himself on his elbows and looked up and along the table, to where Sarai the Ominus was standing._  
_

__Lazlo’s first dazed thought was that she’d never really looked like a goddess of nightmares. She was in a pretty, flowy purple dress sewn with tiny stars, a matching veil under a crown of butterflies. Her face was young, and paling, and she glanced over her shoulder at a brown-skinned man with the same shaped eyes. She looked terrified. She looked back at him, and Lazlo saw that her hands were trembling._ _

__“Lady Sarai,” Skathis rumbled, the grin evident even though Lazlo could not see him. “Today, as you come of age, I present you with a human lover.” He gripped Lazlo’s hair and pulled him up. “I know he’s not much to look at, but I’ve been told you’ll find him satisfactory.” He pushed Lazlo a few steps toward the girl, who had stepped out from behind the table. “We expect you to make good use of him.”_ _

__Isagol tipped back her head and laughed. Skathis joined, summoning his throne and kicking his feet up on the table. All the gods laughed-- except Korako, but she never did, and no one thought anything of it._ _

__Sarai looked at him, and she looked so lost. As though she were a girl in Zeltzin, locked away and left behind, abandoned to the mahalath. She looked so young, and surprised, and afraid, that it was impossible not to feel pity for her._ _

__Lazlo offered a lightning-quick, strained smile, blood smeared over his mouth. She stepped backward, towards the human man, who had dropped his glass of wine. Isagol went on laughing. She sat down, clutching her stomach, her cackles genuine, and worse for it._ _

__And so the goddess of nightmares was framed between her parents, and though her coloring and features came from her mother, she looked far more like her father._ _

__But then, with visible effort, she straightened. “High Lord Skathis,” she said, in a voice that didn’t tremble. “I thank you for this gift.” She bowed low, her night-sky veil and honey-red hair slipping over her shoulders. “You are truly too generous.”_ _

__“Yes, yes, child,” he said. “You’re welcome.” He switched into a language that Lazlo didn’t recognize, something with many sharp consonants and rolling vowels. Sarai rose, clutched her hands, and nodded fiercely before responding in kind._ _

__Skathis chuckled. “Well. Congratulations.” He waved a hand lazily. “Someone, take this boy to her rooms.”_ _

__A man--human, but not the one behind the young goddess--took his arm and led him out another door, which melted open as they approached and closed behind them. The man let go of his arm. “Come on,” he said gently._ _

__It was a long walk. Endless hallway after endless hallway, a daze of blue and blue and blue, and the echoes of his footsteps. Finally, when they approached a dead end, another door melted open._ _

__“These are Lady Sarai’s rooms,” the man said. “And so they’re now yours, too. I wouldn’t touch anything until she comes back, though.” He stepped back, but then hesitated. “And don’t try to jump off the balcony, either,” he added. “It will catch you, and you’ll be punished.”_ _

__And then Lazlo was alone. He stood where the doorway had been just a moment ago, stock still, and listened to the sound of his heartbeat fill his ears. _This can’t have happened,_ he thought. _It’s not possible._ _ _

__But it had. He believed it, now, had accepted that this wasn’t a dream. It wasn’t a denial, it was a plea. To the seraphim, to the gods of the faranji, to anyone who was listening. He’d been taken. And for _her.__ _

__The first time Lazlo had seen the goddess of nightmares, she was six years old. Lazlo was nine, easily old enough to hate the color blue, and being forced to watch the new goddess’ presentation. Presentations were rare. Until Sarai, only Skathis’ spawn were given them. But on the eighth of Seventhmoon, in the city’s pavilion, the daughter of Isagol became a goddess. She was a small child, wide-eyed, silent, in a cupcake-puff dress of rainbow feathers, and evidently trying to disappear into the folds in her mother’s gown. She edged closer and closer towards Isagol as Skathis spoke, and Isagol rolled her eyes and put a hand on her daughter’s shoulder._ _

__Lazlo had been towards the front of the crowd, holding his father’s hand. He’d never seen a presentation before--never seen a young Chosen. Not one that he could remember, at least. Sarai, scion of Isagol, goddess of nightmares, didn’t fit his expectations. She looked frightened, and shy, and kept looking at a place past her mother, and then snapping her head back to the crowd, lips pinched. She played with a blue feather on her skirt and looked at her feet. She looked, except for her coloring, like any six-year-old girl in the world._ _

__There was a moment that Lazlo, in the twelve years since, had never been able to shake off. More than a second, less than three. Lazlo locked eyes with the goddess of nightmares, blue on gray, gray on blue, two children on opposite sides of an oligarchy, and he found them kind._ _

__She took another half-step towards her mother and the moment was lost._ _

__He, like every human east of the Elmuthaleth, had watched Sarai grow up in snippets. A few minutes every couple months. Six years old, seven. Her hair grew longer and darker, her body longer and taller, her eyes steadier. Skathis gave her a throne with the Exalted made of moths and ravids, and she started slouching in it with their casual, elegant disinterest when she was thirteen. She leveled the crowd with solemn eyes and folded hands, and sometimes--rarely-- laughed at whatever Ikirok’s youngest muse said, leaning up to whisper to her. He’d seen her dozens of times since that first day. But there was only one other time that mattered._ _

__On Lazlo’s eighteenth birthday, she appeared in his dream._ _

__He still wasn’t sure if that had even been real. He’d dreamed of the gods, of course--nightmares or fantasies, whichever; they were vile weather they were killing him or being killed by him. In this dream, Sarai had been neither._ _

__The last time Lazlo had seen her in the flesh was several months before, when Ikirok sliced the fingers off a neighbor and forced them down the man’s throat to choke him to death. She’d worn a delicate dress studded with pearls, her hair twisted back with a dagger. She’d spent the execution braiding the hair of Sparrow, saint of seasons, not even bothering to look up._ _

__In the dream, she’d worn a white nightgown with sleeves that hid her hands. She’d looked at him with wide, guileless blue eyes and a tilted head, and then she’d stumbled backwards on bare feet and vanished. He’d woken up with a gasp, just as a dead moth fell from the ceiling and onto his face. He scooped the poor thing up and threw it out the window, and hadn’t gone back to sleep that night, been wary of it the next._ _

__Over the years, he thought he’d glimpsed her moving through the crowds. Just a flash of smooth red hair, a blue foot disappearing around a wall. Sometimes, when he had nightmares, as all humans in the city did, he felt them melt away, and he woke with the feeling that it hadn’t been him to do it._ _

__Tonight, sitting on a couch of ravid fur, hands clenched tight enough to pull his knuckles white, Lazlo wondered if he would sleep. He knew he wouldn’t._ _

__The question was: would he be allowed to?_ _

__Lazlo was able to find the washroom before he threw up._ _

__***_ _

_  
_By the time the goddess of nightmares finally came to her rooms, Lazlo had passed through shock and denial, and was firmly in the territory of anger._  
_

__It was an unfamiliar landscape for him. Lazlo was not a creature meant for rage or bitterness, hatred or envy. But the one thing anyone and everyone hated in the shadow of the citadel was the Mesarthim, and Lazlo was no exception. He’d lived in the thrall of the gods all his life, and now he felt the rage that accompanied the terror and helplessness of every stolen human brought to the citadel._ _

__The door melted away, and she was there. Lazlo, shooting out of his tense perch, was about thirty feet in front of her. He waited for her to come, rage and fear coursing through his veins with renewed vigor._ _

__Instead, she walked straight past him into what Lazlo had gathered, from his brief exploration (for tactical puropses, of course), was the dressing chamber. It was bigger than the entire floor he lived on, full of dresses and crowns and shoes and paints. When she emerged several minutes later, sans shoes and crown, she walked to the washroom. She hadn’t looked at him once._ _

__Lazlo’s hands clenched into fists, the muscles in his jaw creaking. He wanted her to look. He wanted to shout at her, to fight, to hold her accountable. If he was to be her plaything, he wanted her to know how much he hated her._ _

__She emerged after a few minutes, wearing . . . a pair of loose, pale yellow pajamas. Her feet were bare, her face scrubbed clean. Her long hair was pulled into two thick braids. She looked very different from the girl that had been at the party--she was younger, smaller. Wearier. Her arms were crossed . . . defensively. Her chin was tucked almost to her shoulder, and one foot was behind the other. It was like she was doing her best to hide behind herself. Finally, she looked at him. Or. _Near_ him. Her gaze was fized somewhere to the left of his ear. _ _

__She said, “I don’t suppose they’ve brought a second bed in yet, have they?”_ _

__“No,” he spat, but he couldn’t think of anything else to say. What she’d said wasn’t what he’d expected._ _

__“Right.” Her voice splintered, a needle through skin. “They probably won’t for a while.” She turned and crossed into the next room, then the next; to the massive canopied bed on the dias. She yanked off a quilt and two pillows, then came back and shoved them in his arms. Lazlo took them out of instinct, blinking._ _

__“Here. You can sleep on the couch, it’s soft enough.” She stepped back and looked away, skittish. “I’m going to bed. I really would recommend you don’t try to kill me. It won’t work, and your death will be very painful.”_ _

__She turned back towards her bedroom, paused and turned in the doorframe. “Goodnight,” she said, one hand on the wall._ _

__“It’s really not,” Lazlo said coldly, but sheer surprise--and relief--blunted the edge._ _

__The blue girl returned the smile he’d given her. Just as rueful, just as quick, but far softer. “Definitely not,” she said, and turned, and the wall melted liquid and closed behind her._ _

__And Lazlo Strange, dreamer, shopkeep, secret warrior, secret librarian, freshly gifted consort of the goddess of nightmares, was left alone, enclosed, a mile in the sky, stunned, with arms full of unreasonably soft blankets. With no better options, he made a bed on the couch, lied down, and did not fall asleep._ _

__***_ _

_  
_On the other side of the door, Sarai crashed onto her bed. She wanted someone to hold onto; ideally, she wanted her father, but right now he was with Isagol. Ruby, Sparrow, Feral; Papa and Minya had flocked to her after they took--him--away, but she hadn’t been able to let herself break down anywhere but here. She’d been too shocked. And too exposed._  
_

__Sarai clutched the doll Papa had gotten her for her first birthday and sobbed. The doll--Zaree, whose name she hadn’t been able to change even after she learned what name her baby talk had mangled--was ancient, worn soft and faded but held tightly together by renewed stitches. She had black hair and brown skin, and a simple smile was stitched onto her face. She fit under Sarai’s arm, a divot worn by seventeen years. She had a chain of hearts as an elilith. She was roughly the size of a newborn._ _

__Sarai curled into herself, and into her bed, and cried herself to sleep._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've just got to say how uncomfortable writing Skathis and Isagol made me. Just . . . ugh. aaaaaandd they won't get much better . . . 
> 
> Thanks again to LostWendy1, for being the garage door off of which I bounce all my ideas (a garage door that offers feedback and encouragement! The best kind!). 
> 
> I'll try to update this soon, and no force on Earth would have me abandoning this, but school is busy and, fandom being as small as it is, I don't feel like there's much urgency. But leave a comment and tell me what you think! Scream at me about these books! I can never talk about them enough.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	3. This House (Don't Feel Like Home)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LostWendyOne is an angel, as usual. Thank you for all the support <3
> 
> should I have mentioned earlier that I don't own the characters or setting or Strange the Dreamer in general? bc I do not own the characters or setting or Strange the Dreamer in general. Property of Literary Goddess Laini Taylor.

Sarai rushed out of her room. She had dried her tears and made sure her voice was clear. Her robe was tied neatly over her pajamas, and she did look somewhat regal in it. She should have gotten dressed properly, but that would have required staying in the room with _him_ for longer than a few seconds, and she just couldn’t manage that. 

She was headed for her parents’ rooms, just one door down from her own. She needed her parents, her father’s strong, warm arms and comforting smile. But first she needed to talk to her mother.

The door was keyed for her to open. Isagol was sitting in front of her vanity, finishing up her mask of lampdark. Sarai had never seen her without it. She spotted Sarai in the mirror and turned around, reaching for a comb. 

“Good morning,” she called, smiling. “Sleep well?”

Sarai gathered herself, took a deep breath. “Like a baby.” Isagol had never spent enough time with babies to realize that that didn’t mean ‘good.’

“Lovely.” She waved her over. “I take from the looks of you you didn’t use your present.”

“It was late,” she said uncomfortably.

“It’s perfectly fine, pet. You’ll want a couple hours to begin with. From what I understand, the boy hasn’t any experience either.” She tsked and stood, maneuvering Sarai until she was sitting on the stool, and began unraveling a braid. “I’m a little embarrassed to be giving you such an _average_ specimen, but your Auntie Korako told me you’ve got a secret about him. Is that right?”

Sarai bit her tongue. The urge bubbling up in her chest wasn’t her own; her mother was putting it there, and it wasn’t strong enough to force her to. Just enough that it hurt, just a little, like she was one step too near a fire. She didn’t want to tell her mother. _She didn't want to tell her mother._

“Anyway, it could be worse,” Isagol continued, beginning to run the comb through Sarai’s hair. Sarai watched her in the mirror; the goddess of despair smiling pleasantly. “He’s tall. He’s got some lean muscle. Pretty eyes. And I get the sense that he’s the sort to be very gentle. That’s good for your first.”

“Mother,” Sarai said, twisting her fingers together. “I don’t know how you expect me to . . . do any of that with him. I don’t have your . . . he doesn’t love me.”

Isagol met her eyes in the mirror. “Would you like me to make him?” The comb snagged on a tangle; she worked through it gently. It was a sharp comb though, and its pricks dragged along her scalp, each a bright pinpoint of pain. “For you, pet, I would even take away his hate. I know you’re squeamish like that.”

Her hearts, already uneasy in the presence of her mother, started beating against her chest, like caged birds trying to escape. That wasn’t what she’d meant at all, and she had to--she couldn’t let-- “No, thank you. It’s very kind of you to offer, though.”

“I’d be happy to do it, really. But your Uncle Skathis does think it’s a good idea for you to break him yourself. He thinks you’re soft, and I don’t disagree. But . . .” Isagol tapped her chin, and Sarai opened her eyes and looked in the mirror.

They looked so much alike. They had the same nose, cheeks, jaw, and lips, the same color eyes, their freckles. As Sarai grew older, she’d catalogued any differences in their appearance that she could find, done her best to accentuate them. Sarai’s hair was a few shades darker and far calmer, her chin was sharper, her eyebrows thicker, and the shape of her eyes was closer to Eril-Fane’s. Her face was too young, and she’d never painted the Mask of Iemoh across it.

Their eyes, not identical, met in the mirror, and Isagol smiled, softly encouraging and unforgiving as the Uzumark. “No daughter of mine could ever be called _weak._ Isn’t that right, pet?”

Sarai’s voice was a caged sob, one she refused to let out. “Of course, Mother.”

“That’s my girl,” she cooed. She unwove Sarai’s other braid and brushed it through, humming a song from Mesaret. It might have been a lullaby, it might have been a battle hymn; Sarai wouldn’t know. 

Sarai swallowed, heat welling up behind her eyes. She never challenged Isagol, never dared, and yet she lost _every time._ She hated the games her mother played; hated how she never knew how to play them. She hated her mother for what she’d done, and for what she was, and she hated her for what she’d made _her._ She hated her mother all on her own, but . . . she was almost certain that she loved her the same way. Isagol was her _mother,_ and she was almost always sweet and gentle with her, and kept her happy, keeping her close and doing her hair and eating meals together, all idle compliments and smooth words. Keeping her _close._

Sarai couldn’t be sure if any emotions she had were her own, if she’d ever felt anything real.

When she finished brushing her hair, Sarai stood and prepared to leave, but Isagol took her face in her hands and kissed her forehead. “So lovely,” she murmured, and clucked Sarai gently under the skin. _Keep your chin up, pet. Stay still, pet. Don’t look away, pet._ “I’m sure you’ll give me beautiful grandchildren, pet,” she said, and tucked a strand behind Sarai’s ear. “Now run along and get on with it.”

Sarai was able to curtsy and stumble out of the room before her tears spilled out. 

***

Lazlo hadn’t closed his eyes all night. He’d been too on edge, too deep in his thoughts, and he had spent much of the night staring at the ceiling. 

It was, at least, an interesting ceiling. It was an arched ceiling, a mockery of the ones from his home. Instead of ornaments, though, it was patterned like the canopy of a forest, all twining, elegant branches. In parts, like gaps in a true canopy, the mesarthium was paper-thin, showing glimpses of the real sky through a blue sheen. The longer he looked, the more creatures he could pick out, hidden in the branches. Birds and snakes and foxes, rippers and squirrels and bears. All of it was arranged with gorgeous, flawless symmetry.

He couldn’t quite hate it.

A while after the goddess ran out, the door opened again. He shot to his feet, prepared for a confrontation--but it wasn’t her. Instead, a young human man came in with a tray. Lazlo exhaled, and then when he saw who it was, he inhaled sharply.

“Ari-Eil?” he said.

The other man’s eyes widened. “Oh, Thakra beyond,” he said. “It’s _you?”_

Lazlo lurched over and embraced his friend, who had set down the tray. Ari-Eil hugged him back, and Lazlo was so glad to see him.

Ari-Eil was the son of Suheyla’s sister; their friendship was based on proximity rather than any real kinship, but it was true enough. He had been taken up to the citadel only a few weeks ago. After Eri-Fane all those years ago, the family hadn’t been optimistic about his return.

“It’s good to see you,” Lazlo said. It was true--seeing a familiar face was a greater comfort than he could have imagined.

“I wish I could say the same to you,” he said, wide-eyed. “Deliverer, Lazlo. I can’t believe it. She didn’t mention . . .”

Lazlo frowned. “She?”

“Sarai,” he answered, pulling away. “She asked me to get you breakfast.”

Lazlo’s eyes returned to the tray. It was overflowing with food: fruits, rolls, sausages, eggs, as well as a large bowl of porridge and a truly absurd number of toppings. “This is breakfast? For one person?”

Ari-Eil grimaced. “She specifically asked me to make sure you had plenty, because she knew you wouldn’t have eaten much last night.”

Lazlo blinked. 

“But Lazlo, how is my family?” he asked. “My parents? Is Hayva okay?”

“They’re fine, they’re fine,” he assured. “Hayva is still safe. At this point, and with you here, there’s a chance she’s escaped.”

Ari-Eil let out a deep sigh. “That’s a trade I’ll happily take. I’m safe up here.”

“You are?” 

His jaw clenched. “Her Ladyship has granted me favor. As you know, I’m her kin. Her cousin. She’s asked that no harm be done to me.” He sighed again. “That’s why I wanted to come here in the first place. To give Sarai’s consort . . . to give you this knowledge.” 

“You wanted to tell me--”

“That she’s--and don’t misunderstand me, friend, I’d happily see her dead, and all of the spawn in that posse of hers--she’s not her mother. She’s not a threat to you.” He huffed what might have been a laugh. “She’s not interested enough in you to be here, which is about as good as you could hope for, I imagine. Half her blood isn’t from monsters, and you and I know that better than most.” Ari-Eil stepped forward to embrace him again, but pulled away fast and began walking back to the door. “She’s Suheyla’s grandkid, after all.” 

Lazlo thought about that for a long time.

***

It was kind of impossible, Sarai thought, to be miserable in the aviary.

Sarai hadn’t made it ten steps out of her mother’s rooms before her little sister had launched herself at her legs, nearly knocking her down with the force of her hug. Their father was right behind her, and he’d crushed his daughter to him and said, “My darling girl. What do you need me to do?”

Sarai, crying, had asked to just be distracted. 

Which was why they were here. The aviary was one of the biggest structures in the citadel. The citadel lacked for nothing, least of all _space,_ so the aviary took up the entirety of what would be the seraph’s digestive tract. The ceiling was some five hundred feet high. There were trees for the birds to nest in, ponds for them to fish in, and paths for people to walk on. Sparrow spent much of her time here, too, and it showed. Unlike the garden, which was ornamental, this was meant to mimic nature. Here, trees and vines and flowers grew unrestricted. Mesarthium was bright, light blue. If you looked up, you could pretend that it was just a cloudless sky; that you were really down on the world. Like a real person.

After breakfast, they would try to find the birds Vanth had given her last night. Eril-Fane had made sure they were released, as Sarai couldn’t think beyond the prisoner waiting in her bedroom. She’d had to open all the rest of her presents, in front of all the gods and godspawn. She’d had to thank them. She couldn’t remember what any of them were.

Minya sang, _“Ahoi daaram khoshgele, faraar karde ze dastam!”_ She was holding Sarai’s hand with one of her own, and in the other she brandished a large stick that she was pretending was a sword. Eril-Fane was setting up the picnic he had called for when Sarai requested that a hearty breakfast be delivered to her consort. Minya’s high, sweet little voice fit in so well with the birdsong. She had talent, truly--as much as any six-year-old could. When she was Chosen--and she _would be_ \--she ought to train along with Ikirok’s girls. _“Durish baraayam moshkele, kaashki uno mibastam!”_

Minya paused. “Sarai,” she said, “what if you’d gotten a spectral for your birthday? Wouldn’t that have been better?”

Sarai laughed. “Yes,” she said. “I’d have liked that much better.”

Minya nodded firmly. “I’ll get you one for your next birthday.” 

“And where will we keep it, princess?” Eril-Fane asked, smiling. 

“In here,” she said, waving her stick. “It’s big enough, isn’t it? And it has plenty to eat and plenty of birds to be its friends.”

“And what about it’s herd?” he asked. “They need their families.”

“Like us,” Minya said easily. “Well, they can be here, too.” 

“I don’t think it’s big enough,” Sarai said. 

_“What?_ But the avi-ry is so _big!”_

“Not as big as the forests.”

Minya’s face scrunched up. “Then it will live in the forest and we’ll visit it. Oooh, Papa is that Sarai’s cake?” She sat down before the spread of food, finally, and helped herself to a slice.

“Your teeth are going to fall out if you keep eating sugar like this, my darling,” he warned. 

“Good,” Minya said decisively. “Kiska lost her _second_ tooth four days ago, and I still haven’t lost _any.”_

“It’s ‘cause you drink your milk,” Sarai said. “It makes your teeth and bones strong.”

“I am strong,” she agreed. “Me ‘n Kiska are the only ones who can hold the blanket for the dizzy game.”

Sarai grinned. “You get that from Papa.”

Eril-Fane smiled as well, looking up from the yogurt he was mixing fruit into. He said, “That’s right,” and, still sitting, snatched Minya up and dead-lifted her into the air, tossing her up and catching her. The little girl shrieked with laughter and kicked out, but her legs were too short to reach him. 

“Papaaaaaa,” she giggled, writhing. “Put me down put me down, I want my cake!”

“Say please,” he chided. 

“Ple- _aaaaaaaaaase?”_

He dropped her, and she flopped dramatically onto the picnic blanket. 

They ate. Minya relayed her early morning in the nursery-- _“Oh oh oh_ Luck tried to say ‘Minya!’ He was only able to say ‘Mi-ya’ but I knew what he meant. Sarai, it’s his first word! I went to check on him and he just wanted me to play with him. He’s so smart. He covers his eyes and says “ABOO” instead of me playing peakaboo with him. And Orange is gonna start walking any day now, I know it. She’s bouncing and she keeps . . .” Sarai was pleased to hear no mention of the Ellens. She’d have been more pleased to hear that they had dropped dead, she thought, eyeing the fading bruise on her baby sister’s stick-skinny wrist.

Midway through breakfast, Sparrow, Ruby, and Feral found them. Ruby was blazing with anger--or sparking, at the very least, shooting tiny firecrackers off her skin--and the air around Feral seemed dark, but one pleading look from Sarai and they wrangled their anger enough to be her friends. Sparrow, on the other hand, washed a wave of new life into the flowers, much to the delight of Minya, and drew Sarai in for a hug.

“What do you want me to do?” she asked softly. 

“I just want to pretend this is a normal day,” Sarai begged. “A normal, good day, with everybody I love around me.”

Sparrow nodded, and set to work on a flower crown.

“Hello, children who are not mine,” Eril-Fane said with humor. “Here’s your breakfast.”

“Hell yes, thank you Eril-Fane!” Ruby said.

“Little ears,” he scolded, and pointed at Minya, who stuck out her tongue.

“We ate already, Ruby,” Feral said. “Oh--is that cake?”

“No. It’s mine,” Minya said, standing and planting her feet in a defensive stance. “None for you. Your birthday is next week, you’ll have some then.”

“Minya,” Eril-Fane scolded lightly. “Be nice, darling.”

“Oh!” she exclaimed, forgetting the cake. “Hey! We have enough people to play Chain Weaver’s Uncle!”

“You sure you wanna go, little ravid?” Ruby grinned. “Because I’m a pretty fast runner.”

The little girl gave her a flat look. “I won last time.” She turned to her father. “Papa can we play please?”

“Should we let your friends eat first?”

“No,” she said. Eril-Fane choked. “They said they ate already! They don’t need more food. And I wanna play Chain Weaver’s Uncle! There aren’t enough of us who can run in the nursery to play it.”

Eril-Fane tousled his little girl’s long hair. “So long as you don’t try to escape by climbing up a tree again.”

She pouted, but shrugged. “‘Kay,” she agreed. She looked at the teenagers. “Do you guys wanna play?” she asked hopefully. Her eyes were big and bright and earnest, her tiny face stretched into a smile. Her white smock had stains from dirt already, and her bare feet were still wet from when she’d splashed in the pond. It would have been impossible to deny her anything, right then. 

“I’m in,” Sarai said, in the chorus of agreements. 

Minya clapped, and looked like a little girl who’d never known evil. The six of them formed a circle and joined hands, and Minya led the chant as they spun in a circle. They scattered and chased each other like they were all Minya’s age, and came back to start again, and again, and again. Eventually, they formed a scouting party, led by Minya on Eril-Fane’s shoulders (and Ruby on Feral’s) to look for Sarai’s new birds. When they found them, Sparrow dubbed them “Blushing Songsters” for their pattern and pretty keening. Minya decided they should all wear birds’ nests as crowns, and they set about making them. Feral summoned a second picnic for them and they ate peanut butter and jelly sandwiches by the side of a pond full of lily pads and water fowl. Sparrow fed her crisps to the fish and they listened to them _crunch,_ and Minya ate her share of cookies and Sarai’s too, and Sparrow and Ruby squabbled over the right way to make a birds’ nest while Sparrow braided her hair, and then united against Feral, and ducklings waddled into Eril-Fane’s hands, and all of it was enough that Sarai could almost--almost--forget about the prisoner in her bedroom. 

***

Ruby and Minya were in a handstand contest with each other while Sparrow commentated when a young woman with a stiff, plain face came up to them and said, “Lady Sarai, I’ve a message for you.”

Ruby took this moment to let herself fall backwards into the pond. This caused Eril-Fane to snatch Minya up before she could decide to do the same, but the little girl was too busy laughing to gripe about it. Sparrow said, “AAAAAAAAND that’s another victory for our champion: Miss Two-Minute Minyaaaa!” Feral, the dutiful boyfriend, stepped into the pond and offered his lady a hand. Ruby did the obvious thing: pulled him down on top of her and began wrestling him into the mud. 

The servant stood ignored for a minute. 

As she fanned away laughter, Sarai turned to her. “I’m sorry,” she said, out of habit than hope she would believe her. “What was it?”

“I’ve a message for you, Your Highness,” she said through gritted teeth. “The Lady Isagol requests your presence, and the presence of your father and sister, for her evening meal. She says you’re quite late.”

All Sarai’s mirth dried up. “It can’t possibly be time yet,” she hedged.

“It’s nearly seven o’clock, Your Highness.”

She swallowed. “Oh. Of course. Papa, Minya,” she called. “Mother is calling us for supper.”

The laughter dried up instantly. Eril-Fane’s face hardened. Minya’s did something similar that was much less effective, partially because she was upside-down. “Well. Let’s not keep our lady waiting,” he said through gritted teeth. Sarai blinked--her father was almost never cross with Isagol. Her hold on him didn’t often allow it.

Minya, on the other hand, was often angry with Isagol, and her expression was the one she usually made when she was forced to interact with her mother. “Ugh,” she said. Eril-Fane flipped her right-side-up and settled her on his hip. 

They bid goodnight to Ruby, Sparrow, and Feral, who were expected to dine with the rest of the Chosen. The little family of Isagol the Terrible wasn’t seen after dark except on special occasions. Eril-Fane spent his evenings with the high lady, Minya was returned to the nursery, and Sarai had her work. Her friends hugged her and wished her luck--for which part of her evening she wasn’t sure. 

This she knew though: her happy day was over. 

When they arrived in her parents’ rooms, Isagol was waiting at her dining table with her arms crossed. “There you are,” she huffed. “You’re so late the soup has gone cold.”

Minya squirmed in her father’s arms until he put her down, and then ran to Isagol. “Hi, Mommy!” she said, beaming, and threw her arms around her. 

Isagol rolled her eyes but hugged her little daughter, patting her back. “Hello, dearest. Do you know why your father and sister kept you from me for so long?”

Minya rolled her eyes in a very similar manner, her feigned annoyance directed at them. “We were in the avi-ry.” She clambered into her chair and sat, spine straight and delicate shoulders square, as prim as a rosebud. “What have you been doing today?” 

“Nothing fun, since your father abandoned me,” she scowled. “ _Really,_ love. I don’t know why you’re cross with me.”

“Don’t you,” he said, teeth gritted, as he took his chair. “Not even the slightest idea?”

Isagol’s eyes narrowed. “Well, if you’re going to make me guess, I’d say it’s something to do with Sarai’s birthday present.”

“Got it in one,” he said, and reached for his knife. He cut a piece off the smoked turkey and began cutting it into pieces for Minya. The silverware clanked loudly against the plate. His knuckles were white.

Sarai sat down across from her father, wide-eyed. _He’s really angry at her,_ she thought. She could count on one hand the number of times her parents had truly argued--and every single time it had been over her. 

Sarai wasn’t hungry, but she poured herself a bowl of soup--potato, because Isagol didn’t believe in such a thing as a “meal without potatoes.” It wasn’t cold.

“I don’t know why it bothers you,” she said. “It doesn’t bother Sarai. Does it, pet?”

“No, Mother,” she lied, and took a sip of her soup. “I’m honored.” Her throat burned.

Isagol’s gaze cut to Sarai. 

Sarai was not a good liar. 

Isagol smirked at her and turned back to Eril-Fane. He wasn’t looking at her, focused instead on stirring curry powder into his soup. “It’s not just about her doing her duty,” she explained. “She spends most of her day caring for a six-year-old. I was worried she was getting bored.”

“I’m not boring,” Minya protested.

“Certainly not, dearest,” she said, not looking at her, “but nothing gets a girl your sister’s age excited more than boys.”

Minya frowned. “Sarai loves spending time with me.”

“Of course I do, baby,” Sarai assured her. “I’m never bored. Still, Mother, I’m pleased. Thank you, again. You and Lord Skathis are too good to me.”

“Well, you’re not _pleased_ yet, from what you told me this morning. And given that you’re still in your pajamas, I’d guess that hasn’t changed so far.”

Eril-Fane’s spoon snapped. The end of it spun at Isagol, who had to jerk her head to avoid it. She looked at him, eyebrows arched, eyes flat. 

Their father’s face, staring into his bowl, was a rictus of ill-represed fury, and his whole body was tense. His fingers flexed the way they sometimes did--the impulse to grab up a hreshtek. Sarai’s hearts beat unevenly. She feared--she feared--she _feared,_ and that was it, and Minya, holding her breath, reached under the table to grab for her hand. The moment felt like years, but then--

“Oh, I understand, now!” Isagol laughed. “You’re just being protective! I might have known. Eril-Fane, Sarai’s not your little girl anymore. She’s a woman grown. You can’t keep her away from boys forever.”

Eril-Fane’s jaw was tighter than ever before, and his eyes were very far from laughter. But Sarai laughed, too, and said, “Papa! That’s sweet, but she’s right. I’m not a little girl anymore.”

Minya shifted, and Sarai was sure she was grabbing his hand, too. He blew out a breath; his eyes closed. It was with visible effort that he checked his anger. He opened his eyes and gave Sarai a smile--tense but genuine--and said, “You’ll always be _my_ little girl, though.”

Minya cast her dark eyes--their father’s shade, their mother’s shape--around the table, calculating, and declared, “‘Specially cause I’m gonna be taller.”

Sarai said, “In your dreams, pipsqueak.”

Eril-Fane said, “Both you girls have your grandmother’s build. I wouldn’t hold out much hope, princess.”

Isagol said, “I really don’t know how you two are so small, with Eril-Fane for a father. Sarai’s respectable--you’ve got some curves on you--but Minya’s just a little scrap of a thing.”

Minya said, _“Mom_ my!” and released Sarai’s hand, and dinner went on something like normal, from there. Isagol and Minya carried most of the conversation, but Sarai and Eril-Fane were not silent. There were jokes, laughter, stories. It might have been the evening meal for any family, but for the way Isagol looked at them all.

When Sarai was a very little girl, she’d thought their family was happy. All she understood was that Papa loved her and Mother, Mother seemed delighted whenever she saw her or Papa, and she loved both her parents. 

Sarai had known her father since the day she was born. Isagol had birthed her, but Eril-Fane delivered her, had been the first to hold her, to cradle her and kiss her bloody head. Eril-Fane was granted permission to see her, and he spent every second Isagol gave him with their baby.

“It’s a girl, you know,” he said a week after Sarai’s birth. “Our child?”

“That’s nice,” Isagol hummed, and said nothing else.

Sarai met her mother on her first birthday, for just a few minutes. Eril-Fane had washed her up and dressed her nicely, bounced her up and down until she, already a happy baby, was giggly and delighted. He presented her to Isagol, and she cocked her head and said, “Oh, she is a cute little thing, isn’t she? Aren’t you? _Aren’t_ you?”

Her mother held her for two minutes before passing her back. It took her another fifteen to shoo Eril-Fane and their daughter out.

After that, Sarai saw her mother on a semi-regular basis. Isagol would coo and croon and squeeze her tight, and remark on what a cute thing she’d brought into the world. Her attention and affection seemed genuine to the toddler Sarai, and she had eagerly asked, every day, if Papa would take her to Mother when he rescued her from the nursery. Eril-Fane said she was busy four days out of five, and made sure to brush her hair well on the fifth. 

And eventually, every night when he had to return her to the nursery, Sarai begane to felt _it_ in her throat. A sob, and ache. Her gift. She was older by then, wiser, warier. She knew to keep it hidden, even as the nurses became crueller and crueller in their attempts to force it out of her. Until, at last, they did. She screamed out her moths and her mind, and couldn’t even cry for her father because her voice was gone.

And Korako had told the gods what her gift was, and she had been deemed worthy enough to stay.

Oh, glory; oh, salvation! Sarai would never forget her mother saying, “You’re going to stay here with us, pet. Isn’t that nice?” She had burst into tears and embraced Isagol, and the goddess had actually allowed it. Her father had joined the hug, too, and that had been the single happiest moment of Sarai’s life, at that point. The memory had since lost value, as she learned that her mother had not been the one to choose her. That had been Skathis, and only because he wanted her power. 

That was the only reason any child had ever been kept, of course. The gods might use whatever words they wanted, but their children were their tools, their servants, their _pets._ To be trounced up and led around, performing tricks for their amusement. Skathis’s torturers and Letha’s oddities; Vanth’s acolytes and Ikirok’s muses. Sarai was the first child Isagol had kept, and that hadn’t even been her choice.

And now, Minya was nearly six and a half. Her gift would come any day, if indeed she wasn’t already burying it. And if Isagol didn’t want her--couldn’t be persuaded to keep her--then . . . then . . . 

Sarai didn’t want to think about ‘then.’

Minya was, as usual, the darling of the table. She was everybody’s favorite. Eril-Fane doted on his more delicate child, Isagol thought her younger daughter was amusing, and Sarai loved nothing in the world half as much as her baby sister. Minya was telling about game she and her friends had made up, and Sarai and Eril-Fane gave her their rapt attention. 

Too much attention. They didn’t notice Isagol’s mood worsen the longer Minya spoke, the longer _she_ wasn’t the apple of Eril-Fane’s eye; the longer Sarai didn’t look at her in deference; the longer Minya didn’t marvel over every word that left her mouth. They had neglected Isagol’s vanity all day, and weren’t making up for it now.

“So Kiska ‘n me were waiting for Werran to look ‘n see us, and we’re still hiding under the crib, and then . . .” Minya yawned--she’d been active all day with no nap--and Isagol pounced.

“Minya, dearest, are you sleepy?” she said, voice sickly sweet. 

Minya stilled, happy smile dropping. “It’s not lights-out yet, Mommy,” she said. “I still have some time left.”

‘If you’re yawning,” she said, “you ought to go to sleep.”

“Mother,” Sarai tried, already reaching for her sister. Minya was slipping out of her chair and towards Sarai, taking her hand. “I can keep her until it’s lights-out, it’s no problem. Minya, baby, come along, we can--”

“Eril-Fane,” Isagol said, and her voice brooked no argument. Minya’s eyes were round as coins. If she came back early, the nurses would know she had been dismissed, and if she had been dismissed, then she had forfeited Isagol’s protection for the night. “Take your daughter back to the nursery, and then come back and clear all this away.” Isagol pushed her hair back and stood, and her shadow fell, as it always did, over the table. “I’m going to take a bath. If you’re back in time, you can join me, _love.”_

***

There was nowhere else Sarai could go. 

She had walked Minya back to the nursery with her father, and had snarled at the Ellens when they looked up and saw the little family. She’d kissed Minya goodnight and promised to see her in the morning. Minya had strode bravely back into the room, and immediately picked up a baby who cried “Mi-ya!” when he saw her. Sarai wondered if that was little Luck. She wondered how long he would last. 

“Papa,” she whispered, when the door closed again. “What am I going to do?”

He gathered her to him, and she could tell he barely knew any difference between her and the child they’d just left in the nursery. She was still his little baby. 

“Do you know, anyanzi,” he said, “when I finally stopped tearing myself apart over my feelings for your mother?”

She shook her head. 

“It was the day you were born,” he said. Eril-Fane looked at his daughter. Red hair, blue skin. Freckles and a pointed chin. Her mother’s lips, her father’s smile, her grandmother’s sense of humor. Eril-Fane had seen his rosy-headed baby crying, cold and afraid, thrust into the world, and finally, Isagol’s calculus was completed. Hatred was no match for what bloomed in Eril-Fane when he held his baby daughter. “I could fit you in one hand, you were so tiny,” he told her. “I sat so still, afraid I might drop you. You slept for a few minutes, but when you woke up, you looked up and blinked at me. You reached out your tiny little hand and grabbed my finger.” He smiled. “And you went right back to sleep. I was a goner, anyanzi. Nothing else stood a chance.”

His hatred for the gods hadn’t died then. It hadn’t died to this day. He would gladly see Skathis, Vanth, the rest, dead. But he loved Isagol _so much._ With more than what he hated her with. She’d given him his daughters. In that, at least, his feelings were pure. He was fully grateful to the goddess of despair for bringing his children into the world.

It was for baby Sarai’s sake, not Isagol’s, that he had not revolted when his wife was imprisoned in the little rooms that lined the hallway to the nursery. 

Sarai buried her head farther into her father’s chest. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I want you to know,” he said, “that no matter what happens, I’ll always love you, and I’ll always support you.” 

Sarai trembled. “They’re forcing me to become Mother,” she whispered. 

“There is nothing in the world,” he swore, “that could do that.”

 _What will be the difference?_ she thought. She terrorized humans. She sat on a throne while they suffered and died below her. She would beget a bastard with an unwilling human. 

And maybe the seraphim knew what would happen to that poor baby, but she didn’t. The fate she would have shared. The fate her little sister might be sentenced to any day now. 

Her mother was some two hundred and fifty years old. What had she been like in her youth, back on Mesaret? Had she been normal? Had she loved ones? Was it all the years of power that had driven her mad? Could the same happen to Sarai?

Sarai’s throat began to tickle. Her moths would need out soon. She’d kept them in last night, so they would be even more desperate tonight. 

But she couldn’t scream herself away quite yet. There was a conversation she needed to have, first. 

***

Since Ari-Eil left, nothing had happened. There were no more visitors, no more meals. The mountain of food that had been delivered had served as his lunch and supper, and it hadn’t quite been depleted yet. 

Lazlo had spent the hours in between thinking. 

Ari-Eil. His words. His conviction that Sarai wasn’t like Isagol, the claim that she had shielded him for their shared blood, the fact that he had acknowledged her as his cousin at all. 

About Skathis and his words, on the flight up. _“She’s soft. We’re hoping you’ll toughen her up,”_ the god of beasts had said. Before, he hadn’t credited it with much; combined with Ari-Eil’s halfway-vouch for her character, he wondered.

When Lazlo had been small, he had thought perhaps not all the godspawn were monsters. It seemed unfair to judge them based on their parents, and Amezrou did not believe in punishing children for the sins of their mothers or fathers. Then his father had been executed, and even the youngest of the Chosen, the eight-year-old muse of passion, had been unaffected. Now, he believed with all his hearts that those born blue were evil. 

But . . . he also thought about Sarai herself. The young goddess had scarcely looked him in the eye at all last night, and had spent the day elsewhere. As Ari-Eil had said, that was about the best he could hope for.

She was _younger_ than him. It was a bizarre thought. He’d had a conversation with a goddess last night, and she was more than three years younger than him. She was a teenager. In faranji stories, gods were eternal beings that outdated humans by millennia. In the real world, the gods had appeared suddenly and violently more than two hundred years ago and hadn’t aged a day since. 

And she was _short._ Without heels, she’d barely come up to his chin. Unlike her mother, her gowns were not made of dead or deadly things. There was no black mask across her eyes. And she braided her hair before she went to sleep and took off her shoes and her pajamas were nearly identical to his cousin Tzara’s. And she’d been horrified to see him dragged in and couldn’t meet his eyes when she had given him blankets and pillows off her own bed, and sent him an enormous breakfast “because she knew you wouldn’t have eaten much last night.”

Lazlo had spent the most time dwelling on that. _“She knew.”_

 _She knew._

She _knew_ he wouldn’t have had time to finish supper. Did she know what time he ate with her grandmother? Did she know that he was often late, lost in his own head? Did she know what he was doing to wind up there?

_What else did she know?_

The question had slammed into his mind like Rasalas landing. He knew that he had dreamed about his secret library. He’d opened books and fell into worlds; it was his most frequent type of dream. Did she think he was simply dreaming, or did she at least suspect it was a real place? Sarai was, among other things, a spy. Discoveries made by her had lead to the executions of some dozen people. 

And forget his library, he’d thought, a new horror dawning. _Does she know about the caves?_

Under the city. Through the channel. The secret swath of warriors training in the caves, keeping tradition and some measure of hope alive. 

Lazlo was among them. 

He’d been approached by a farmer a few days after his father’s death. “Your papa and I,” he’d said. “We were close. I know what kind of man he was, and I think I can guess what kind of man you will be.” He’d leaned in close. “Lazlo Strange. You like stories, don’t you?”

He had nodded. 

“Would you like to be _part_ of one?”

Lazlo had said yes. He was hot with his father’s blood, and rage, which he had never been skilled at, was roiling in his gut. He’d followed the man’s instructions and found his way to the underground caves where Tizerkane were made. 

They were little more than myth in their own homeland, after two hundred years. The idea of them had always fascinated Lazlo, and he was awed and honored to be a part of their ranks. He didn’t have the soul of a warrior, he knew, but . . . he thought he might have the soul of a protector. 

Could he protect his people? His fellows, his friends, his family? Would he somehow betray them while he was up here? Or . . .

Lazlo swallowed. His mind had run in it’s circle again, and came back to the awful finish line. 

There was an understanding among the Tizerkane men. The women were equal warriors, of course, but they simply would not have the chance. Men and women’s positions in the citadel, as best they could tell, were vastly different. Men had more freedom. And so there was the agreement that, should one of theirs be taken up, he would give his all to end the Mesarthim.

The last man of their ranks to be taken up was Eril-Fane, almost nineteen years ago. He had never been set free. It was the general belief amongst those who knew him, including his long-ago bride, their commander, that he must have attempted something and died as a result of it. They said it like a matter of fact--as though it would be absurd to think he wouldn’t have tried his might against the gods. Lazlo, who’d been reared as a warrior hearing stories of his bravery and strength, certainly believed it. 

But Eril-Fane had failed. And now Lazlo was in the citadel.

Could he do it? Could he kill the gods? The mere question seemed to reek with arrogance, and he shrank from it. _Eril-Fane,_ legend, hadn’t managed. But . . . he’d been given this chance. He wanted to do something with it.

Before he had the chance to spiral into self-doubt and begin the cycle again, the door opened.

It was Sarai.

Lazlo jerked to his feet, hands balling into fists. He was in no danger, though, he saw that immediately. The goddess had her head ducked, her red hair now in complicated braids decorated with flowers. She was still barefoot and in her pajamas, and she was . . . holding a tray?

“Um,” she said. Her voice was pretty, he noted abstractly. It was _human._ “I think we should probably talk.” She cleared her throat, and held out the tray. “I brought a peace offering,” she said in a rush. 

It was also full of food. Some dinner dishes, but mostly, it was _desserts._

“We don’t have to talk now,” she said, words tumbling over each other, “I won’t force you to do anything. But I do think it would be in both of our best interests to have this conversation as soon as possible. If you want to wait until tomorrow morning, or the next day, or--”

“What if I don’t want to speak to you at all,” Lazlo said.

She tucked one foot behind the other--the same move she had made last night, he recognized, like she was trying to hide behind her own body. “Like I said, I won’t force you to. If you would prefer, I can go. But--” She raised her eyes to his, and they skewed off to the side again. Did _he_ make _her_ nervous? “You have to know you won’t be permitted to spend the whole year in my sitting room.”

Lazlo’s jaw clenched. _“Permit it,_ then.”

The goddess took another half-step back. “It’s not up to me,” she said quietly. “Believe me or not, it’s the truth. And if you don’t want my mother reaching into your head--if you’d like to _keep_ your head, then you and I need to have a conversation.”

“Was that a threat?” he asked. 

Her eyes flew wide. _“No._ I--I’m not trying to--to play mind games with you. But I’m not lying, either.” She took a few hesitant steps forward, not walking directly towards him, but skirting in a wide arc towards the opposite end of the couch than where he stood, put down her tray, and then skittered backwards again. Lazlo said nothing, only watched her with narrowed eyes. 

The goddess of nightmares blew out a breath, like she was rallying courage. “I know that this place is hell for your people,” she said, words slow and soft. “And I know you have no reason to believe a word that comes from the mouth of a demon. But if you want to live to go home, please, _please,_ just listen to me.”

Lazlo ground his teeth. He didn’t want to trust a word from her mouth, she was right. But--she was right. She’d taken the words from his mouth. From his _mind._ Was that her magic? Could she infiltrate thoughts? Did--

But she was _right._ As soon as he wasn’t locked in a bedchamber, he’d assumed that he would be expected in public. And he couldn’t go into that blind. 

And he wanted to go _home._

Lazlo swallowed. “What is it, then?”

And Sarai _sagged,_ sighing out a massive breath. “Thank you.” She smiled with relief, like he had done her a favor. She looked at him, and immediately the joy leached from her pretty face. She moved so that the ravid-pelt couch was a barrier between them, and fisted her hands in the cushions. “You . . . you know what’s going to happen, don’t you?”

“I’m here to father your child,” he said flatly. His fingernails were digging into his palm, and he tried to believe it was purely anger, uninfected by the terror of the idea that his child would be here, and then who knew where. When he remembered nothing when he came down, he would still know that.

Sarai flinched harshly at that, but nodded. Her arm flew to her belly. “You’ll get to forget,” she whispered, voice quavering. “Or maybe you don’t care. But I’ll have to remember--” she bit herself off, squeezing her eyes closed. “The point is. I’m so sorry that this happened to you, and I swear, I had no idea. But . . . if I--if you--if I don’t . . . within a year, there will be consequences for both of us. I don’t need to say that they’ll be greater for you.”

Faced with the sight of a trembling teenager girl with an arm wrapped around her stomach, Lazlo found it hard to hold on to his anger. She looked like Tzara’s sister Hanin had when she had come down from the citadel, only months ago. “I understand that,” he said, softer. “And . . . in order to subvert these consequences . . .”

“You know the answer to that.”

“If I were to refuse to touch you?”

She glanced at him, away again. “I’m not going to force you to do anything. But if it doesn’t happen within a few months, my mother will demand answers. By the time she has them, we’ll be . . .” She didn’t finish. Her other hand came up to clasp her wrist.

His stomach twisted. Isagol would reach into his hearts and shatter them, break them until they were raw and would surrender themselves gladly to Sarai. He would love her, and he would know it wasn’t true, and it wouldn’t matter at all. Such was Isagol’s power. 

“When can I go home?” he asked, fists clenched at his sides. “I don’t need to be here for a full year.” He needn’t be here to watch her belly swell, feel the baby kick, hear its cries. See it be taken away forever. 

If he never had those things in the first place, would it be easier to lose them?

“You’ll probably have to stay that long. I’m sorry,” she said. “It really doesn't make much difference, though. You get to forget everything.”

“It’s still a year of my life stolen,” he snapped half-heartedly. Already his mind was conjuring images of a red-headed infant with gray eyes--would he dream them up again back in the city? 

Her face crumpled. “I’m sorry, okay? I . . . I . . .” She faltered. Then, with vigor, she asked, “Are you hungry? I’ve been reliably told that any difficult thing can be made easier with good food.” 

He sighed. “There’s no point in going on a hunger strike, is there?”

“Afraid not,” she said, not without sympathy. “And really, the food is one of the few good things about this place. Come on,” she coaxed. “How often do you have chocolate?”

Lazlo sighed. Like a hunger strike, there was no point in trying to remain hostile with the girl. “Not as often as I’d like, I’ll admit.”

She steeled herself. “Here.” She reached over the tray, took a small ball off a triangle of similar balls, and crept closer. She kept the couch between them, and leaned forward over it to offer the ball to him. Lazlo hesitated, then held out a palm and she dropped it in--not even coming close to touching him, he noted. She watched him with a sort of nervous eagerness. She wanted him to like he, he could tell. He popped it in his mouth, and was pleasantly surprised by the flavor. 

“It’s good,” he told her. 

Sarai gave him a half-hearted smile and tucked a golden-red curl behind her ear. “I’ve got an idea,” she said. “You and I need to . . . make a plan. Why don’t we make it over dessert?”

“I can’t think of a better place to.”

Sarai made herself a plate first, and settled on the opposite arm of the couch from where Lazlo’d made his bed. She was still tense enough to snap in half, but she reminded Lazlo of a bird ready to flee instead of a ravid ready to pounce.

“Your position here” she began awkwardly. “You can do almost whatever you want. Soon enough I’ll get you keyed so you can go where you like. You don’t have to stay here.” 

“Where else would I go?” He began filling a plate, focusing on not letting his stomach audibly rumble. He meant the question rhetorically, but she answered it literally.

“There’s a game room,” said Sarai. “A swimming pool. An aviary. Sparrow’s gardens.” She paused. “I don’t suppose . . . Did Skathis say anything to you?”

Lazlo’s jaw clenched at the god’s name; the mention of his abduction was brutal, no matter how gently she’d asked. His hand flexed on the cake he held, and he found himself wishing for his _hreshteks._ “He told me he hoped my being here would “toughen you up.””

She flinched back. “My mother said something similar,” she admitted, voice small. “This is about breaking _me,_ by forcing me to break _you._ We’re to be each others’ hammers.”

Lazlo disliked the analogy. Still, the voice of Skathis rang in his ears. _“She’s soft.”_ “What have you done that the Mesarthim are so keen to ‘break’ you?”

“It’s more what I haven’t done.” She took a bite of something Lazlo didn’t recognize and chewed it slowly. Lazlo bit into one of the familiar-looking options--a fruit tart that Suheyla made when she could--and nearly did a double take. It was amazing. “I’ve never ripped anyone’s eyeball out,” she continued. “I’ve never dismembered any of my maids. I don’t pluck the feathers off my birds. Et cetera, et cetera. That’s--we’ve gotten off topic.” Sarai was making an effort to remain professional, he thought. It wasn’t working, but it was entertaining. He took another bite.

“I’ll admit, most of what I know about c--consorts,” she began, stumbling over the word, “is just what I’ve seen. I’m not very close to any of the older girls, though, nor Letha, and Korako doesn’t take them. But . . . we’ll be expected to do things together. Meals, afternoon activities.” She frowned. “Usually Isagol enchants them, so I’m not sure how we should act, but we can figure that out later.” 

“If the goal of this is for you to break me,” Lazlo said carefully, “how exactly do they expect you to do that?”

She shrugged helplessly. “Nightmares? Somehow? I don’t know.”

“I’m asking what they expect you to do to me,” he said. “If they expect you to drive me mad, I can fake that. If they expect you to warp my logic so that I’m glad to be here, I can fake that. If they expect you to make me fall in love with you--I’m sure I can fake that as well.” Lazlo’s stomach churned at the idea, but it was far better than _actually_ being forced to fall in love with her.

Sarai was shaking her head, though. “No, no--I don’t know, okay? I’ll find out later.” Her eyes--so very blue, lighter than her skin, piercing--fell to the floor. She began picking at a bowl of fruit. 

Lazlo ate, too. He was hungry and the food was amazing, but he knew the conversation wasn’t over yet. They’d avoided the most important issue. As the minutes dragged on, however, he could tell that Sarai couldn’t bring herself to bring it up. 

But someone had to. 

He steeled himself. He didn’t know what to say--how far he ought to remove himself, how objective he should be. In the end, the words he said were, “What about the baby?”

She didn’t flinch, as he’d expected her to. Instead, she set her plate down with a clatter and her hands wrapped around her stomach again. The gesture was so similar to the one Suheyla made so frequently. Her eyes squeezed shut, and her shoulders began to shake.

She looked, he thought, like a blossom trembling in the breeze.

Any of Lazlo’s remaining rage slipped away. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t keep blaming this girl for his abduction. It was plain to see that this wasn’t her idea, and that she was devastated by its implications. She was trying so hard to be kind to him. If she was playing a game to win him to her side, as he had imagined earlier, he couldn’t fathom it. There was just no point. She could easily send him to Isagol and have him race back to her in minutes, desperate for her body, her mind, her heart. And Skathis saying that she was soft--Lazlo doubted the high god would set the stage for her. The gods had laughed at her when she was stricken last night. 

After a long moment, she stilled. Sarai said, “It can take a while to conceive.” Her voice was void of any shaking, any fear or sadness. Any emotion at all. She sounded dead. “We’ll probably have six months before my mother does anything.” She lifted her eyes to his, and they were as lifeless as her voice. “I’m sorry if this is _inconvenient_ for you, but I’m not going to . . .do that with you until . . .” She closed her eyes and blew out a breath. When she opened them again, there was pleading in them; in her voice when she spoke. “Do you think we could try to be comfortable with each other? Could we try to get along? There’s no reason to make this any harder than it has to be, and if we could be . . . allies . . . in this, then wouldn’t that be better?”

Lazlo swallowed. To offer his hand in peace to the daughter of Isagol, goddess of nightmares, seemed to be treason. But . . . both of them had been forced into this, and surely she was right--the . . . situation . . . would be better if they were on the same side.

There was a story he’d found, years ago, about a man who fell in love with the moon. Sathaz, he’d been called, and the moral had been about making peace with the impossible. When he’d relayed it to the Tizerkane, Ruza had cried, “No such thing! We’ll make _war_ with it!” Ever since, it had been a common sentiment among the warriors--that they must eventually win this impossible war. 

But this was not a war. This was an occupation, an oligarchy, an oppression, and though Lazlo was very, very far from making peace with it, he could at least make peace with _her._ An impossible peace, between the goddess of nightmares and a secret warrior. For no reason he could name, this felt significant.

“Allies, then,” he said, and stretched his hand across the table. 

A relieved smile broke over her face. Eagerly, she clasped his hand and shook. Her fingers felt so small in his, so delicate. “Allies,” she said.

Almost against his will, Lazlo smiled back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so like. they just spend the whole chapter eating, huh?
> 
> whhooooooooooo I'm back! it's been like?? three months??? 
> 
> I don't want to give any sort of schedule for updates, but I think it's worth mentioning that I was knocked out of commission for a month bc I got pneumonia for two weeks, and then had two week's worth of make-up work. Also, I was taking a dual enrollment writing class that wrapped up last week, and that took up a Lot of time. So updates might come a bit faster now? but AP exams are looming . . . who knows. I'll be working on this no matter what. Anyway,
> 
> I'm gonna explain why I shifted some of the kids' parents/powers around. For Ruby, I needed her to be, how to phase this, sufficiently entertaining. Her personality would be enough, but she needed a bit more *pizzaz* to be kept on. Sparrow isn't Ikirok's kid because her power isn't really for entertainment purposes, and she's not a Vanth Jr. or a creepycreep horrorterror like what Skathis picks. So I made her Letha's daughter. Will these changes have literally any effect on the plot? No. 
> 
> Minya being Sarai's little sister DOES have a pretty big effect on the plot, but I planned it like that and, to be honest, like 60% of why I wanted to write this was bc I wanted to give Minya a loving and supportive family. I guess Sarai and Eril-Fane too, but like. _Minya._ She's my BABY and I love her more than most of my relatives. Can't stress that enough. In canon I think she's a) the most complex character i've ever read b) a severely traumatized kindergartener who needs a nap and a hug from someone who's not the corporeal manifestation of her own goodness that she forced from her body in order to take care of babies she saved from murder and c) Has Done Nothing Wrong, Ever, In Her Life, and I Know This And Love Her. In aus? watch me DROWN this little girl in love and support. 
> 
> Thank you for reading! Comments mean The Whole World to me, if you'd like to drop a line. ^-^


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